A joyful dog

Sleep is just one of those things in life I don’t seem able to do very well. So many mornings, like this one, I sneak out of bed hours before I actually need to leave the comfort of my wife and the huddle of my animals for a soft chair in our library to read, knock around a draft of some work project, or obsess over something. At some point a few hours later, I will hear stirring from the bedroom and return with a strong cup of Peet’s for Carolyn.

And on those mornings, although this may be my pattern every morning for several weeks running, our little dog Frida explodes with enthusiasm as I return to our bed. This is the same dog of course who, just hours ago, gladly took over my space before I was fully upright. But now she treats my return as if it were the BEST THING that ever happened, twirling and dancing with apparent joy, leaping onto my body for noisy cuddles with yips of excited happiness that we are together, reunited, after such a long and lonely separation.

Not much later, there’s ebullient Frida again dancing enthusiastic circles at my sudden appearance, wrapped in a towel from the steamy shower. Her long tail flags furiously as she contorts herself into a crescent shape, that gyrating appendage rhythmically smacking her in her own face. She blinks with each wag into her eyes but doesn’t stop the wagging, smiling so broadly, making me laugh. IT’S YOU OH GLORIOUS YOU, she exclaims, without words of course but the message clear.

Soon after, now fully dressed, it’s time now for FRIDA’S BIG ADVENTURE WOW OH WOW around the block, this stroll anticipated with as much enthusiasm as I might have for an African safari. With luck a squirrel may run across the street or a neighbor might be getting into her car or something else equally wonderful and magical might be witnessed, but every walk is our visit to Disneyland and Frida is there for every ride, every delight. (Big dog Archie appreciates the chance to stretch his aging legs and leave his mark on a few upright objects, but his day is defined as much by worry as Frida’s by joy: what are that neighbor’s intentions? What if that crow was to dive down on us? Will the couch still be there when we return? Such is the difference between a dog loved from her first moment — Frida literally born into our hands, one of the puppies of an extremely late term stray dog which my family fostered — and a dog who survived prior serious abuse before coming to our family. Meanwhile, while we walk around a few blocks, two people with one delighted dog and one worried dog, our cats are of course warmly tucked in bed, that same bed I abandoned long hours ago, enjoying their time as the only species left on Earth.)

I leave the house knowing that, sadly, no one at work will be quite so thrilled at my appearance as is Frida, and so I will go through the day like most of us, working, doing what I do, but without an adoring fan club. Until I walk back through my front door tonight after work, that is, when the happy explosion will go off once again.